Seeking Safety
by DieuPardonne
Summary: After years of oblivious and moronic guardians, the Baudelaires finally have two people they can trust. But their connection to Sherlock might prove to be even more dangerous than Olaf ever was.
1. Chapter 1

John Watson looked down at the letter and rubbed his forehead. There was nothing he could do. A sob story, sure, but he couldn't help. He sat the letter on the arm of his chair and fetched a paper and pen from the desk.

"Since when does the American government contact us on paper?" Sherlock asked. He'd seen the seal, clearly.

"Since they ask for help," John replied, settling back in his chair to write a response. He propped the paper up on his laptop, waiting for the words to permeate Sherlock's concentration.

"A case?" Sherlock asked. He finally looked up from his microscope, which contained a particularly interesting liver sample. Of course it would be a case. Since when could any government fend for themselves these days?

"No," John said. Sherlock sighed slightly in disappointment and returned to his experiment. "Actually, they asked me to take in some orphans. Apparently I'm some distant uncle, and the only available relation."

"Hardly available," Sherlock snorted, "Imagine. Children here." John ignored him and continued writing. He was right, of course. Their flat was covered in lab equipment, dismembered body parts, and the ever-present threat of cocaine. Any children coming here would undoubtedly be scarred by the experience.

John had planned to post the letter the next day on his way to the surgery. It was tucked into the pocket of his coat as he sat and ate his toast. He was painfully aware of the envelope, and the story kept going over in his mind. But there was nothing he could do.

There was a knock on the door.

Sherlock swore and slammed the Petri dish hard onto the table. The bags under his eyes said he'd not slept the night before.

"Mycroft? Or a client?" John asked carefully. Sherlock nodded ambiguously, but it was clear from his sneer that it was the former at the door. He clearly didn't want to be disturbed, and Mycroft was a disturbance of the worst kind.

John got up and opened the door when Sherlock didn't move. Mycroft stood with his umbrella, smiling thinly and stepping inside. John turned and attempted to return to his toast, content to let the brothers argue. But, to his surprise, Mycroft addressed him.

"No doubt you've gotten the plea from the Americans, and you've penned your letter of refusal," he began.

"And now Britain is here to urge us to reconsider?" Sherlock said acidly, jumping in before John could respond.

"Well, yes," Mycroft said, looking mildly at Sherlock. "Have you deleted information concerning the Baudelaire fires?"

"A string of badly planned arsons across America. Linked to several possible organizations. Boring." Sherlock leaned against the table, arms crossed, scowling at Mycroft.

"Brother dear, you should sleep when you're not on a case," Mycroft said with a sarcastic smile. "The largest fire orphaned three children: Violet, Klaus, and Sunny Baudelaire. Since then, they've been dogged by an assassin intent on taking their fortune and their lives. The orphans have been shuffled between guardians, who are invariably too stupid to recognize danger."

"Put them in a home," Sherlock snapped as he returned to his microscope and the more average liver sample, "Customs can catch the assassin. _Boring_." He emphasized the word, clear on his answer.

"It does seem rather simple," John interjected, trying to add strength to Sherlock's nasty refusal, "Place them with someone who's not stupid."

There was a silence as Mycroft studied his hands, which gripped the handle of his umbrella. The clock ticked uncomfortably as he assembled what argument he'd use next.

"Sherlock, John," he said, uncharacteristically quietly, "I've met these children. They're precocious, even by our standards. In the wrong hands, any one of them could be a match for you." There was a pause. "I can't imagine these minds under Moriarty's control. It wouldn't be hard for him to get a hold of them; no one wants the trouble they bring. They're young enough to be impressionable. You can imagine the results."

Sherlock looked up from his microscope to glare at Mycroft. A silent minute passed.

"How old?" Sherlock asked in a clipped tone.

"Fifteen, twelve, and six. In three years, Violet comes of age and can legally care for her siblings."

"What?" John asked incredulously, looking over at Sherlock, "You're not seriously considering this? We can't keep children here, especially not three of them! I'm at the surgery, you're on cases—there's a bloody head in the fridge, for god's sake!"

The brothers ignored John. He fumed silently, hating being the slowest person in the room.

"Three years?" Sherlock confirmed.

"And not a second more. They can take care of themselves."

"Sherlock, no," John said, being as stern as he possibly could. "This is out of the question."

There was a tense silence as John glared at Sherlock, and Sherlock looked calculatingly at Mycroft.

"When will they arrive?" Sherlock said, rubbing his temples.

"Two days," Mycroft said, relief creeping into his voice, "I'll have them set up at the local schools in a week—they're walking distance, no worries about transportation. And you two will receive a monthly stipend from the government, equal to the cost of care of three children. They need daily meals, even if you neglect that need." He eyed Sherlock, who missed the jibe.

"And I guess my opinion doesn't matter at all," John said hotly.

"No, it really doesn't," Sherlock said carelessly, waving a hand in his direction.

Without another word, John got up and stormed out, shoving past Mycroft and slamming the door behind him.

"What did I say?" Sherlock said in mild surprise.

"Ignore him. He'll come around. You're doing me a huge favor, you know," Mycroft said.

"I'm trying to forget that fact," Sherlock said.

"The children will be here in two days, at ten. Prepare John for it. And please do clean the flat," Mycroft said, eyeing the liver samples that were still in Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock nodded and returned to the microscope. Mycroft let himself out and Sherlock allowed himself to let out a breath. He put his head in his hands and wondered what he'd just agreed to.


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later, at nine fifty-two, John Watson sat nervously at the kitchen table. He traded a cup of tea between his hands, back and forth, back and forth. A list of issues was running through his head, just like it had been for the past forty-eight hours. But hopefully this time, all the issues would be solved. Hopefully.

He took a deep breath. At least the essentials were covered. The guest room was made up for three, there was a minimum of food in the kitchen and he'd thrown out anything toxic he'd found. He still didn't know what to expect, even for the simplest thing—would American kids want pop? Milk? He had no idea. He was never around children, unless you counted Sherlock during his tantrums.

Speaking of Sherlock, he was nowhere to be seen. John kept worrying his cup between his hands and wondering where he could be. He never slept in like this—unless the sleep deprivation had finally caught up with him. He could be anywhere, even out buying cocaine, for god's sake.

There was a knock on the door, interrupting John's racing internal monologue. He put the cup down quickly and walked to the door.

The sight of Anthea took his breath away. He hadn't seen her since that first night with the cab driver, and this time she was smiling. Specifically, smiling down at the little girl whose hand she held. She walked in as John held the door, and the two older siblings—a boy and a girl—followed her in. She looked up at John, not smiling quite as broadly.

"John, this is Sunny," she indicated the little girl, "and Klaus and Violet." She indicated the two older siblings who smiled shyly. But despite their obvious apprehension, they stood tall—not attempting to hide behind Anthea.

"Hello," John said, a little awkwardly, "You can just call me John. And Sherlock is here somewhere."

"Hello," Sunny said brightly. The other two siblings nodded and smiled, but they were superficial, light smiles. John remembered that they'd not been given much reason to trust authority figures. Surprising himself, he realized he wanted to change their perception. He wanted their trust. It was an odd feeling—he'd never given much thought to young people before.

"Why don't you sit down," he suggested, gesturing slightly toward the couch that had just joined the two chairs. The three did as they were told, Sunny letting go of Anthea's hand. The latter visibly closed off even more—she must like children, John realized.

"You'll get their files within the day," Anthea said as she turned to leave, "But I believe you know the basics—enough to get on."

"I do. Would you like to stay for a drink?" John tried, fully expecting failure.

"No thank you, I have to get back," she said, "Goodbye, Sunny—Klaus, Violet. It was nice meeting you." She gave them another smile, then turned and walked brusquely out of the flat.

She closed the door behind her, and the sharp snap made John realize that he'd stared at her walking out. Flushing slightly, he turned around and sat in his chair, facing the children.

"Hello," he said again, "Like I said, you can call me John. I'm a doctor—I work at a local surgery, so I'm afraid I won't be around all the time. Sherlock is my flatmate—he's a detective," he stuttered a little on the last word, unsure how to explain Sherlock to the children. It was going to be a shock when they met him, but was there any way to prepare them? "He's…a little eccentric. You'll meet him soon, I expect.

"The flat is your home now, so within reason, make yourself at home. Sherlock does a lot of work at home, so his things aren't to be touched. But don't feel bad, I'm not allowed to touch them, either," he smiled hopefully, and the kids smiled uncertainly, knowing he was trying.

"So…now that we've got the basics over with, what about you three?"

"Anthea said you would get our files in a few hours," Klaus said after a moment.

"I know," John said, frowning slightly, "But I want to hear about you and your story, not someone else's version."

"Okay," Violet said uncertainly, "Well, we were orphaned about two years ago. Our parents were killed in a fire that destroyed our home. Since then, we've been chased by a man named Count Olaf. He's after our fortune. None of our guardians seem to be able to recognize him."

"Well, that's no good," John said, remembering that they'd apparently been in the hands of some very stupid adults. "I promise, I will always take it seriously if you think there's a threat. After all, you know this man better than I do."

"Thank you," Violet said with relief—but still reservedly.

"So what about you three? What do you like to do?" John asked. He was seriously beginning to wonder where Sherlock had gone. Was he planning some huge entrance? All John knew was that he was interested, but getting tired of playing babysitter solo, when he hadn't even agreed to this.

"Well, I like to research," Klaus began, "Violet likes to invent, and Sunny likes to cook."

"Wow," John said, "those are very…sophisticated hobbies." The two older children shrugged, and Sunny just smiled.

"Well," John said, shifting in his seat a little, "We've got plenty of books, but I don't know how much you'll like them—"

"I'll love them," Klaus assured him. John smiled.

"Well, maybe. Regardless, we can get you a library card. And Violet, we've got plenty laying around—especially medical equipment. I trust you know better than to injure yourself?" John smiled, and Violet smiled in return, seemingly honestly. It was ridiculously easy to please these kids. All they wanted was to be treated like people—or maybe have someone recognize their intelligence? Either way, John fully intended on doing both for the kids.

"And Sunny, we're a little short on ingredients. Most of the time we have takeout. But we can always change that. And I'm sure your siblings are willing to help you with things like the stove if Sherlock or I aren't around."

"Thanks," Sunny said in a bright voice, smiling. John noticed she had rather large front teeth, which were oddly sharp, but he put it out of his mind.

Just as John was casting around for another topic to bring up, he heard a door slam upstairs. He silently cursed Sherlock for being so late, but at least he was coming.

Unfortunately, he was still Sherlock. He came around the corner wrapped in a blue dressing gown, yawning, with a hand through his hair. John rubbed his forehead in frustration and silently cursed his flatmate.

"This is Sherlock," John said, attempting to maintain his composure—as Sherlock flopped into his normal chair, facing the kids.

"And you're Violet, Klaus and Sunny," he said, actually seeming interested in what he was saying. "An inventor, a researcher and a cook. Here to stay for three years while you're being chased by a dull moron."

"I thought you said you hadn't gotten our files yet?" Violet said uncertainly, looking between Sherlock and John.

"We didn't. I heard the basics earlier. And the rest is obvious," Sherlock sniffed.

"Sherlock, please don't show off," John said in a low voice, consciously trying to make a good impression on the kids.

"What do you mean, it's obvious? How did you know I was a researcher?" Klaus asked interestedly.

"Obvious. You wear glasses, but not just any glasses—you're severely nearsighted. Common, sure, but also caused by focusing on something very small, such as print on a page. There are calluses near your elbows where you rest them on the table. And then there's your commonplace book."

"How do you know about that?" Klaus asked, eyes wide with astonishment.

"Obvious. It's in your pocket, not in luggage, so it's special to you. But it's visible and it's plain, so it's not any sort of journal or diary—you'd keep that secret and personalize it. What kind of notebook is kept on the person of an avid reader? A commonplace book."

"And my sisters?" Klaus asked eagerly. Sherlock smiled slightly before drawing another breath; he seemed to be enjoying the attention.

"Violet was obvious, again. You have scars and calluses all over your hands—they look twenty years older than you. You're too young to be any sort of mechanic or even apprentice, and your lifestyle also suggests otherwise. The scarring pattern isn't consistent with car maintenance, fishing or any other known practice. That fact, plus knowing your level of intelligence, makes it likely that you invent on your own.

"Sunny was harder, because she's so young and I'm guessing her hobby is less developed. But still, she has burns on her fingertips. This is inconsistent with any sort of torture, and is instead characteristic of chefs. There was only that one clue, but I'm guessing I'm correct?"

"I'm so sorry about Sherlock," John said in a rush, "He likes to show off—"

"That's amazing," Klaus breathed. His sisters looked like deer in headlights, and were clearly more overwhelmed than amazed. "How did you learn to do that?"

"I just observe," Sherlock said, and shrugged.

"You said you were a detective?" Violet asked warily.

As Sherlock nodded, the doorbell rang.

"That'll be your files," John said. He got up from his chair and left the room. There was a silence while he was gone; the kids weren't sure where to look, while Sherlock stared unabashedly at them. Violet and Sunny were much less comfortable with this than Klaus; they shifted around in their seats and looked over their shoulder, wanting John to come back.

"Here we go," John said as he returned, his cheeks visibly red. He dropped the three files on an end table, and Sherlock picked them up interestedly. He leafed through a couple of pages, then snorted and pulled out a large picture.

"Really? This was a disguise he used?" Sherlock asked incredulously. It was a picture of Olaf as a fisherman, from the kids' time with Aunt Josephine. The fake wooden leg looked even worse on paper than it had in real life; it was badly carved and made of cheap wood.

"Yes," Violet said uncertainly.

"Honestly?" Sherlock snorted again, "I'm surprised even the Americans can't see through this. That's one of the stupidest, most transparent disguises I've ever seen."

"Really? You can tell it's him?" Violet asked, daring to be excited. "No one else believed us."

"Well, you're going to have to get used to having smart guardians now," Sherlock said, casually flipping through the rest of the file.

"That'll be nice," Violet said quietly, so quietly only Klaus and Sunny could hear her. Klaus looked over and smiled at her sister. Klaus reached over and took ahold of Sunny's hand, squeezing slightly.

After Sherlock had looked through the files, he'd gone to the kitchen to find all of his experiments cleared away. After his hurriedly-hushed outrage, John talked to Sunny about dinner, as Sherlock showed Klaus and Violet their bookshelves.

In the end, they had baked beans on toast—all the flat really had to offer in the way of culinary ingredients. Sunny tried her best, but she could come up with no other options.

"I promise I'll go to the market tomorrow," John had said, "I'll get some real ingredients. Why don't you make me a list?"

Sunny was working very carefully with a pencil and paper, writing down a list for John. Klaus was settled down with London A-Z, Violet was sitting quietly and looking at nothing in particular. The evening passed slowly, and she wasn't about to relax.

For two years now, all they had wanted was safety. Since that horrible day on the beach, they'd been watching their backs every second. And every time they dared to hope that things might be okay, Olaf showed up. There was no reason to think that this would be any different.

Still, maybe there could be room to hope. Maybe this time things would work out. John and Sherlock seemed smart, seemed like people who would see through Olaf's weak disguises. But you never knew. Other smart people had disappointed them.

In the end, Violet was the last one asleep. They were on rather uncomfortable beds in the guest room. It wasn't necessarily the most luxurious place they'd ever stayed. And it certainly wasn't the most traditional—it was odd to be overseen by two bachelors. But they were intelligent, and that might mean she and her siblings would be safe.

Her mind kept going in circles, daring to hope and then changing her mind. She'd made no decisions when she finally fell into a light sleep. All she knew was that they were seeking safety, and maybe now they'd found it.


	3. Chapter 3

Violet began her day in front of the mirror, tying her hair back with a ribbon. Most of the time, this action was in response to a need to keep her hair out of her face; it had been a long time since she'd worn a ribbon simply because she cared about the way she presented herself. She paused to take a long look in the mirror. The face that looked back at her was unsure; halfway between excitement and dread for the day. It could be great: she could finally find a place where she could learn uninhibited around people her own age.

Or it could be another failure, like the last school she attended. She shuddered at the painful thought. She remembered being forced to run miles every night, being forced to sleep in a run-down little shack.

Here, though, she and her siblings had the safety of 221B. At very least, it was a place they could come every night and regroup. It was a moment of calm in the chaos of their lives. Whatever happened at school today, they wouldn't be forced into physical activity here, and they'd be able to sleep on real beds. It was faint hope in comparison to the unknown day ahead, but it was hope all the same.

The thought calmed her as she continued to get ready. Klaus and Sunny were as quiet as she was, perhaps also remembering their time at Prufrock Prep.

Or perhaps they were dreading the coming separation. Violet was to go to St. Marylebone, while Klaus and Sunny were attending King Solomon Academy. Nothing good had ever happened when the three of them were separated, and it was hard to believe that today would be an exception to that rule.

John had insisted on walking Klaus and Sunny to school their first day, before his work at the surgery. He'd tried to wrangle Sherlock into walking Violet, too.

"No, really," Violet heard herself saying, "I'd rather go by myself. It's fine. I'll be fine." She forced a smile. John still looked worried, but he allowed her to walk by herself.

It was irrational, but Violet was now half-regretting turning down his offer. It was ridiculous, given that she was a teenage girl and completely capable of walking by herself to school. And Sherlock was hardly a comforting presence.

But as eccentric as he was, he was an adult. And between her skirt-and-tie schoolgirl outfit, the glaring eyes of strangers and the speed-walking businessmen, Violet had begun feeling very young. She felt as though every eye was on her and her new, starched uniform. She figured she stuck out like a sore thumb, an obvious American child in a grown British world.

Reaching the school was the easy part. There was only one large building, but the layout was complex; it took Violet fifteen minutes to find the office. It was in an administrative wing, and Violet suddenly realized she must've come in the wrong door. Her face flushed red at the mistake as she approached the counter.

"Hello," she said quietly to the woman behind the desk, "I'm Violet Baudelaire? I'm a new student here…" Her sentence trailed off unintentionally. She took a deep breath and tried to steady herself. Being nervous was okay; falling apart at the seams was not.

"Oh yes, we heard you'd be coming," the woman said as she smiled. Within a few minutes, she'd shuffled through what seemed like thousands of papers; at least a dozen were in Violet's hands now. Finally, the woman leaned back and smiled again.

"Now all you have to do is fill those out," the woman said, "go ahead and take a seat b the wall. You'll go to class when you're finished, but no rush."

Violet smiled and nodded at her, took the offered clipboard—more papers!—and a pen, and settled herself in a wooden chair.

There was something strangely therapeutic about filling out the forms. She read the code of conduct, and signed in agreement; filled out her name and birth date; signed on the lines. It was simple and calm. She knew all of the answers, obviously; nothing could be marked wrong.

She shook her head at the thought. She couldn't start school normally if she was excited about filling out paperwork. She'd have to work on seeming normal if she wanted to fit in here—or even get by.

In a little over an hour, Violet had worked her way through the papers, filling out each carefully and correctly. She'd remembered John's cell phone for her emergency contact and she'd remembered the British format when she wrote down her home address. It had started out as a good day; she felt infinitely more calm and ready to take on a new school.

The smiling administrator had informed her that it was second hour. After checking one of the printed sheets she still held, Violet followed her schedule and map to the third floor. She walked a little bit apprehensively; it was an English class. Klaus was better than she'd ever be at language.

"Violet?" the teacher asked when she'd walked hesitantly in the door. She nodded and took a small step forward—at least she was reassured that she was in the right place. "Good!" the woman said, smiling at her. (Did everyone in England smile this much, or was it just because she was new and strange?) "Class, this is Violet, our newest student. She's new to the area and she'll be with us from now on. Sit down by Sara over there—Sara, can you raise your hand?—that's it. Don't worry too much about today's lesson. We'll work independently at the end of the hour and I'll catch you up then." The woman was still beaming, and Violet felt as though she'd stumbled upon a chipmunk in human form—the woman's energy seemed boundless.

Violet quietly and hesitantly took her seat next to Sara, a girl in a green-and-blue floral hijab. She gave Violet a small smile and then returned to taking notes.

The teacher's voice was enthusiastic, but it soon became droning to Violet's ears. Against her best intentions, Violet found her mind wandering away from the role of mother and father archetypes in world literature. In a glance around the room, she found that everyone appeared to be focused on the teacher. Sure, it would be easier for them; they understood what was going on.

At least they weren't staring at the new girl, like they'd done at Prufrock Prep. The kids here seemed much more interested in the lesson than in her, which was a relief. She guessed that the school in which she'd been enrolled was not exactly a public school; the students here seemed to care, and she could only guess how much they were paying to be here.

She guessed that John and Sherlock weren't paying anything for her to come here. She was here on scholarship, maybe, or on the orders of Mycroft, the mysterious man who had landed Violet and her siblings their new home. He seemed to have massive influence, hinted at in every syllable of his speech. There was no reason he couldn't get her into a school like this, she figured.

Before she knew it, her reverie was interrupted by the teacher. She announced that they were to begin the process of figuring out a thesis for their research papers. The room grew quiet but for the sound of flipping pages, and Violet grew uncomfortable again. She knew none of the assigned texts or anything about the project.

The teacher walked over to her desk and squatted next to her, so that she appeared actually shorter than Violet.

"I'm Ms. Thompson, Violet," she said in a half-whisper, "Right now we're beginning work on a research paper, specifically to do with parental archetypes in world literature." She handed Violet a list of six or seven books, which Violet scanned. "Have you read any of these?"

"No," Violet said quietly, shaking her head slightly. She was so far behind she was beginning to feel slightly dizzy. Her hands shook slightly.

"Not an issue," Ms. Thompson insisted, "I'll have you read the texts and write a shorter paper while the others are doing their research paper. I'm told you're bright, so you shouldn't have a problem reading those," she indicated the paper in Violet's hand, "and the paper will be no big deal; no sources required, just basic expository. How much experience do you have with research-style compositions?"

"None," Violet admitted, "My schooling has been very…hit and miss."

"Well, you might be in over your head here, then," Ms. Thompson said, her forehead wrinkling in concern. "The class is usually very fast-paced. How about this. We'll give you a month to catch up—the length of this current project—and then we'll assess and see if you can still be in this class. Okay?"

"Okay," Violet said in relief, feeling that the arrangement was more than fair. If she was given a chance to catch up, she was fairly sure that she could. She could always ask for help from Klaus at night.

"One more thing. You'll have questions, about the class and the school and the paper—I'm assigning Sara to help you out for a little bit. She's incredibly nice, a brilliant student, don't hesitate to ask her anything," Ms. Thompson said.

Sara looked over at the sound of her name and smiled at Violet. She smiled back, feeling a little bit better. There was someone she could come to, at least, though it remained unclear how much help she'd be, or if she'd mock Violet for being so clueless.

The rest of the day went just as badly as English, if not worse. Violet soon found that she was behind in every subject, sorely lacking in necessary knowledge and experience. She'd been placed according to age group, but clearly not according to ability. She hadn't been in a true school since the age of twelve, and it was finally catching up to her.

The only redeeming part of the day had come to her in a green-and-blue hijab. Sara had sat by her at lunch, asked polite and superficial questions. She'd answered all of Violet's questions kindly, but didn't talk all that much. Most of the hour was spent in companionable silence, which Violet appreciated. She didn't know if the feeling was mutual, but she was grateful enough for the help to consider Sara a friend.

At the end of the school day, Violet already had a mile-long list of things that she had to accomplish. She had to go to the campus bookstore, mainly; she needed the books for English, the kit for biology, the mathematics book, and about a dozen other things. Thankfully, each teacher had given her a waiver for what she needed, which she'd turn in for the supplies; she wouldn't have to pay out of John's money. She suspected that this, too, was the doing of Mycroft.

She was glad that she'd thought to bring a bag on her first day, as she stuffed all of her new materials into the backpack. Or rather, she was glad that someone had thought ahead and purchased a bag each for her and her siblings.

By the time she finally arrived back at 221B, Violet was entirely exhausted, ready to take a nap until the next day. She'd been taxed that day—she'd been under the expectations of someone her age, instead of someone on the run for her life. She didn't know how much more she could take, but she knew that she wasn't done yet. She still had to talk to her siblings, find out about their day, and make sure that everyone was safe and okay. But for the first time since her parent's death, she didn't want to. She'd been shown today the expectations of a teenager, and she didn't want to go back to the expectations of being a parent.

So she compromised. She had a quick, terse conversation with Sunny and Klaus; Klaus was behind as well, but Sunny was actually ahead of her class in some ways. Violet felt a stab of jealousy, but assured herself that they were all safe. And then she went upstairs and shut herself in the bedroom.

It had been a rollercoaster of a day. She hadn't realized quite how abnormal their lives had been until she was exposed to a normal day. She had lots of feelings that she didn't know how to classify; she didn't understand it when a few tears leaked out onto her pillow. She felt strange and uncertain.

She took a deep breath and sat up. Violet knew she couldn't sit and cry all night. She took out her new supplies and began to arrange them according to class; she put her papers in the correct folders and labeled her new materials. So maybe it was a very American way of doing things, but for now, she didn't care. Maybe she needed a little bit of American.

The feeling she was experiencing hit her like a train. _Homesick_. She was homesick. She missed her parents and her home. She hadn't allowed herself to feel this after their deaths—she was too busy keeping her family safe. But now that Klaus and Sunny were downstairs being entertained by John's stories of Sherlock, now that the three of them were safe… Maybe now it was safe to cry. Either way, at least now she knew the reason.

She was homesick.


	4. Chapter 4

Klaus returned from his day in a much better mood than Violet. It was true that he was behind in every subject, even English; however, he'd made friends and he was determined that he could make up the difference. He was walking home with Sunny, who had had the best day of the three of them.

"I had the best lunch," she bragged to Klaus, "I made it myself." She'd made herself a vegetable stir-fry, and Klaus smiled a little. He was willing to bet that she was also the only student who had made her own lunch. Though slightly behind in language and speech, Sunny was already learning quickly, and was in fact ahead of her class in many ways. She'd told him all about the new friends she'd made and how she couldn't wait to go back tomorrow.

It was a sentiment mirrored by Klaus. He was happy to finally have a stable home, albeit a strange one; even more, he was glad to have a place where he could learn unabashedly. He didn't have to sneak books out of law libraries anymore, or sift his way through herpetology journals. He could go to legitimate classes and learn things in order, the way they were easiest learned, and he could finally have a good education. Without thinking, he sighed contentedly.

When they arrived back at 221B, they found a strange sight. Sherlock was in a bathrobe, looking deranged and closely examining photographs, which lay spread over the floor and chairs. Klaus, though slightly alarmed and more than slightly intrigued, knew that this wasn't a situation for his six-year-old sister.

"Why don't you go change out of your uniform, Sunny?" Klaus asked, nudging her up the stairs. She obliged, and waddled up the steep stairs the best she could.

Klaus inched forwards towards the couch.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice his presence or movement, and Klaus realized he was being granted a rare opportunity. Despite living in the house several days, he had barely seen Sherlock; he had been on a case of some sort, and afterwards had slept for nearly a day.

"They say you're intelligent," Sherlock said out of the blue, not looking up. Klaus jumped at his voice.

"Um, I do read a lot," Klaus said, a little hesitantly, "and I have a sort of talent for research."

"Well, then, here's a riddle. Say I'm a murderer. I use nightshade to poison a wealthy businessman's daughter, and leave every trace of it out in the open. Why? Who's trying to make a point?" Sherlock said, half to himself. He resumed studying the pictures, ignoring Klaus, who wasn't sure if he was still supposed to answer.

"How do you know she was poisoned?" Klaus asked. He was afraid it might be a stupid question, but if he was going to try to match wits with his new guardian, he needed all the information.

"Of course she was poisoned," Sherlock spit, "it was in her system, all over her mouth."

"What if she took it herself?" Klaus ventured.

"What? Stupid. Why would she kill herself?" Sherlock said, waving away the suggestion.

"No, as a drug. Nightshade is a hallucinogenic," Klaus said quietly, painfully aware that he was probably being stupid again.

There was a heavy silence. Sherlock raised his head and looked at Klaus, who looked away, to the foot of the couch. But after a few seconds, it seemed as though Sherlock wasn't truly looking at him, or at least not seeing him; he appeared to be absorbed in something in his own mind.

"Brilliant," Sherlock breathed, finally appearing to come back to himself. Klaus half-smiled, not sure if it was praise for him or something unrelated. "How did I not remember that? Heiress of a fortune, living on her own, no friends to speak of, parents don't pay attention…of course she was experimenting with drugs. And she kept chasing that ultimate high. She wouldn't have cared about the chance of overdose. How did I not see it?" He spoke while rifling through the pictures, looking for details that Klaus couldn't pick out from the distance.

"Klaus, is it?" Sherlock asked, pausing and looking up.

"Yes," Klaus said hesitantly, not sure if he was about to get in trouble. He was seriously regretting his interest in Sherlock at all—it had been a terrifying and uncertain few minutes.

"Apparently you are as smart as they say you are. Tell me, have you ever heard of a mind palace?"


End file.
